Qomolangma
by Seanier
Summary: An exhausted and abused monk shows up at India's door late at night, begging for assistance. She takes him in, risking the fury of her insane neighbour, China.


It was about half-past-eleven when India heard the knocking on her door.

At first, she ignored it. Probably some child out playing late-night pranks, she thought to herself.

But then it became louder.

More urgent.

"It must be America," She thought out loud. Who else would have the chagrin to call upon her at this ungodly hour? He had a lot of nerve, that one, dropping by to proclaim his affection at all the worst times. "I love you and only you, India!" she remembered him proclaiming. Right, only her. And China. And Russia and Japan and Brazil and Germany…

India marched angrily toward the door, her saffron sari billowing around her. Ready to give America the berating of his life, she swung the door wide open, coming face-to-face with-

A monk?

India stared into his wide, deep eyes, speechless. She regarded him up and down: his shaved head, innocent face, saffron robes… Why did he look so familiar? Had she seen him before somewhere?

"Please, India," he rasped. "I didn't know where else to go. I… need help."

The poor man sounded exhausted. India stood there, motionless, unsure of what she should say. Who was this man? How did her know who she was?

"Who are you?" She asked him.

"Ah, you probably don't remember me. The last time I saw you, you were just a little girl." He said softly, a faint but sincere smile creeping across his face. "I am Tibet."

Tibet! Tibet, China's ward? Tibet, who was never mentioned by anyone except briefly, and in hushed tones? India had never given him much thought, for he was always considered by everyone to be China's business. What was he doing here?

"Please," he repeated, "I've run away from China. It won't be long before he comes looking. My brother has always been possessive of me."

She had definitely not been prepared for this. Not knowing what else to do, she gave in to her instincts, taking him by the hand, leading him into her home and shutting the door.

"Do- do you need anything?" She asked him. "A cup of chai? A bath?"

The monk smiled.

"A bath would be wonderful," he said, looking down at himself. "I didn't exactly notice before, but I seem to be filthy!" He chuckled. India privately wondered how he could be so cheerful.

"That's if it's not too much trouble, of course," he added.

"No trouble at all!" India reassured him. As she helped the unsteady monk toward the bathroom, she bit her lip. What was she thinking? She had a strict policy of non-involvement to uphold! Ever since the death of her mother and her falling-out with England, she had sworn herself to neutrality. No convoluted military alliances, no defence pacts, and _certainly_ no rubbing her nose in a superpower's private affairs.

But… he needs me, she thought as she ran the water for the bath. What else can I do?

She shut off the water, and turned around, blushing at the unexpected sight of Tibet standing naked behind her, clutching his monk's robe in his arms. Judging from his confused expression, he evidently did not understand why India had reacted the way she did.

"Is there something wrong?" He asked, giving her a concerned frown.

"No! Not at all! Just- just tell me if the water's okay," she stammered, caught off guard.

As her refugee scrubbed the dirt from his face, she saw that he looked far younger than she originally took him for. In fact, he could have almost been a teenager! Her gaze wandered down toward his body, and she almost gasped as she caught a glimpse of the scars that covered it. Before she could get a good look at them, however, Tibet interrupted her thoughts.

"I am exceedingly grateful, India," He said. "If I may be so bold, 'India' sounds so impersonal. Do you have another name by which I can call you?"

India frowned. England never had given her a name. Now that she thought about it, her brother Pakistan didn't have a name; and for that matter, she couldn't recall her mother, Ancient India having one either.

Tibet cut into her thoughts once more.

"I understand if you don't-"

"No! No, it's not that," India blurted out, "It's just… Well, truth be told, I don't have any other name for myself."

Tibet raised an eyebrow, and considered what she had said. He was fond of pauses, this one. Finally, he spoke.

"With your permission then, I will call you Qomolangma."

Qomolangma, that name sounded familiar…

"Isn't… isn't that the Tibetan name for Everest?" India asked, almost laughing at the idea of being named for a mountain.

"It is," Tibet said, smiling and nodding his head. "In my language, it means 'Saint Mother.'"

Saint Mother? India smiled. Mother indeed. This man was many centuries older than her.

"I'd be honoured, Tibet."

"You may call me Tenzin, if you wish," he replied. "Only my brothers call me that. The only other one who ever used that name for me was your mother."

India nodded, smiling, but saying nothing. The two sat in silence for what seemed like forever, before she broke the silence.

"Um, the towels and bathrobes are in the cupboard there," She picked up the robe he had been wearing. "I'll wash this for you. If there's anything else you need, just call."

Tenzin nodded. India turned to exit, then stopped.

"Tenzin," she began. "If- I mean, if it's not too much to ask, I'd- I'd like to know more about my mother."

"Of course," The monk smiled. "Any time."

India thanked him, then shut the door and made her way to the kitchen, tossing Tibet's robe into her laundry basket as she walked by.

It's the same colour as my sari, she reflected. How odd.

After briefly debating whether it was too late at night for chai, she decided that these were special circumstances and began boiling the water for the aromatic beverage.

As she pounded the spices with her mortar, her mind wandered back to the scars she had seen on Tenzin's body. There were so many, and they were so varied. All shapes and sizes, all over his body. She looked down at the burns on her own arms and felt a twinge of anger towards her father.

Suddenly, a knock on the door jolted her out of her thought process.

"Coming!" She yelled, setting her mortar down and hurrying toward the door. God, who could it be this time?

India opened the door.

She might have guessed.

"China."

"Good evening, India," The immortal nation began, wasting no time at all. "I am sorry to bother you this late, but I'm missing something of mine and I wondered if you would have any idea as to its whereabouts."

He must have meant Tenzin.

"I haven't seen anything," India lied. "In fact, I was just about to go to bed."

"Do you usually go to bed this late, India?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and regarding her with a gaze that sent a chill down her spine. This was China, she reminded herself. He was not to be offended, especially not these days. He had never been quite right in the head since his little fling with that Mao Tse-Tung…

"I had a busy day, that's all," She replied, "With a population as big as mine, well, you know how that is."

China nodded.

"Well, if you see my little runaway, let me know," he said in an ominous voice. "He literally dresses like a monk, he's about my age, and immortal as well. I miss him dearly, and the sooner I get him back the better."

India said nothing, but nodded. Satisfied, China made a slight bow, then turned on his heel and marched briskly off into the night.

After shutting the door, India looked down at her hands realised she was shaking.

It dawned on her at that moment what a potentially dangerous situation she had gotten herself into. China would be back, she had a feeling. From what she gathered, he was not one to give up easily on something he believed to be his.

But as her kettle whistled from the kitchen, she promptly shook off her worries. There would be time to worry about China later. For now, Tenzin needed her, and she was not going to disappoint him.

She walked back into the kitchen, took up the mortar and continued pounding the spices, their scents wafting up and mingling with each blow she struck.


End file.
